


Hug Wolf Moon

by BlanketFortAvenger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Crack Treated Seriously, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Episode: s01e01 Wolf Moon, Episode: s01e07 Night School, Feral Peter Hale, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, For putting up with all the flirting, Hugs, M/M, Magical Claudia Stilinski, No Smut, Non-Consensual Hugging, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Peter Hale Needs a Hug, Pre-Slash, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott Needs A Hug, Scott is a Good Friend, Sort Of, Tags May Change, They all still left Peter, Touch-Starved Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-09 08:11:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13477332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlanketFortAvenger/pseuds/BlanketFortAvenger
Summary: The Nemeton, explains Claudia's letter, will draw all manner of evil to Beacon Hills. Stiles and Scott venture into the preserve in order to save the town. Little do they know, there is a dangerous creature wandering the preserve, searching for an unsuspecting victim to satisfy its insatiable hug-lust.In essence, Teen Wolf's E01S01 "Wolf Moon", if it had the plot of Adventure Time's E08S04 "Hug Wolf".





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the Adventure Time episode "Hug Wolf". I'll admit, most of the more comedic lines of dialogue in this, are taken directly from there. I'd also like to acknowledge that I do not own any of these characters. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Please, if you are sensitive to non-consensual touch, hugging, or minor stalking, re-consider reading this fic.

Maybe this tree wasn’t evil, it wasn’t even really a tree - just a wide, level stump, but it felt ancient to Stiles - it felt sick. It sat in the middle of a wide clearing and was low to the ground, perfect for containing a fire. The Nemeton, explains Claudia's letter, had once been a sacred place, but somewhere over the centuries it had become infected, drawing all manner of evil to Beacon Hills. She had meant to purify the blighted tree herself, but she fell ill before the time came.

Stiles read the letter over again as they walked through the dark preserve. Scott kept grumbling that he should be the one to hold the torch, but Stiles simply swung around to shine it in his best friend’s eyes. The letter was already well worn, despite Stiles’ careful handling over the week since it had arrived. The instructions contained within weren’t written by a well woman, but his mother had managed to suspend her illness to write it. Something, maybe not an evil tree, but something had made her determined enough to write words that, towards the end, had been far from her thoughts. She wrote about her son, how much she loved him, trusted him, and entrusted him with the task that she wouldn’t be able to complete. It’s something that Stiles had needed for years. So, he had a tree to burn - tonight. It had to be on the night of the full moon.

Scott didn’t believe that there was an evil tree, but he was willing to help his best friend to find a worthy pyre. Something befitting to burn in remembrance. So, they trekked through the woods, in search of the Nemeton. The letter didn’t specify a tree, just that it was old, powerful, and dying. They’d found the stump soon enough, if only because they weren’t really looking.

Stiles’ father, of course, knew nothing of the letter. It wasn’t exactly legal to be in the preserve at night, let alone to intentionally set a fire. The last case of arson in Beacon Hills preserve had been 6 years ago, and the arsonists will still be in jail to kingdom come. Of course, attempted murder is a somewhat more serious offense, but Stiles wouldn’t put it past his father to ban curly fries, on top of whatever legal punishment was involved.

“So, how do we do this?” Scott asks, twisting off the cap of the fuel tank they’d brought along.

“Just…” Stiles mimes pouring the fuel in short, sharp glugs, before opening his hands in a slow-motion explosion. “Shhblaam!”

“You better hope it doesn’t go - shhblaam,” Scott says, mimicking the hand gesture with not enough enthusiasm. “We’ve got to keep it to the one tree, man.”

“The letter just says that fire will purify it. I don’t think it needs to be in ashes.” Stiles shrugs, gently folding the letter, and tucking it away into the pocket of his hoodie. Scott nods, and begins pouring fuel over the stump, keeping to just the surface, and making sure not to get any on the surrounding ground. Stiles stands back a little, shaking the box of matches just for want of something to do, when the sound of a snapping twig catches his attention. He peers into the darkness, just beyond the tree line, but can’t see anything without the torch that’s still illuminating the stump while Scott works.

“Maybe the asthmatic shouldn’t be the one breathing in gasoline fumes,” Scott coughs when he’s done, standing back, and shaking his inhaler. It’s as he brings it up to his face that Stiles turns back around to see his friend’s handiwork. The puff that Scott takes isn’t so much a sharp, deep breath, but a gasp. “Stiles!”

Stiles swings back around, only to witness something dark and monstrous crash into him. Long, thick limbs go around his body as he yelps in fear. Bright, glowing, blue eyes stare down at him, before a muzzle is being pressed to his throat. Lethal-looking teeth all too close to his hammering pulse. He can feel sharp claws on his arms, scratching lightly across his skin, as the beast tightens its hold. Stiles isn’t breathing.

“Scott?” He wheezes out.

“Oh my god, Stiles! Are you hurt?” Scott’s frozen, not willing to move while the beast has his friend hostage. Stiles takes a moment to count breaths. He’s still waiting for the pain, for the creature to growl threateningly, but nothing comes. He’s not sure who’s breaths he’s counting, his, or the warm, wet air on the side of his neck, until he realises that he’s breathing in time with it. The grip on his torso is tight, but not crushing. The claws haven’t drawn blood, there’s no pain.

“No?” Stiles finally answers. “He’s just, hugging me gently.” Stiles tries moving an arm. The beast huffs against his neck and tightens its hold. Not painfully, but Stiles can feel its strength. Feel the way it’s already managed to lift three-quarters of Stiles’ weight. Stiles tosses the matches. “Burn the tree.”

“Not really the priority…”

“Burn the tree, Scott!” Stiles can barely hear the strike of the match over his heart beating. The beast has lifted all his weight now, Stiles’ feet are held just off the ground. With no effort, the creature could carry him off at, what Stiles assumes would be, harrowing speed.

Orange light and heat flares to fill the clearing, where just before it had only been awash in soft, cool moonlight. The beast growls as the flames lick higher, and just as Stiles thinks _‘Here it comes’_ , the beast has dropped him on his ass, and bolted back into the dark between the trees.

“Didn’t even tell me its name.” Stiles mutters. Tripping to his feet and stumbling over to Scott. They stand as close to the burning stump as the heat will allow them. From somewhere in the not distant enough, echoes a blood-chilling howl.

“I think…” Scott pauses to take another puff of his inhaler. “I think we burned the right tree, because that thing sure as hell looked evil.” Stiles only nods.

They stay to make sure the fire is contained, and once the fuel has burned off, the wood is too dense to sustain the flames. They douse the embers with water, before kicking it as fast as they can, at a shared pace, back to Roscoe.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles would gladly, never again, stumble into the ugly-scary that is the supernatural. Alas, it seems much too pleased to stumble into him. Or more suitably, only somewhat content to stalk him from the various tree-lines around Beacon Hills. It’s been almost a month, and Stiles has caught far too many shadows, lingering, at the edges of his vision. A month almost to the day, and the first full moon since that night. Stiles refuses to believe that centuries of concurring folklore were so utterly wrong about their facts. So, if there was a night for a werewolf to suddenly be dissatisfied with simply lurking in the shadows, it was tonight.

Stiles and Scott decide to lure it to the school. There’s no way they’d invite the creature home to Stiles’ dad, or Melissa. Stiles has been watching the wolf, almost as much as it’s been watching him, and the wolf has yet to appear threatening, but some nights it does like to toy with him. It twists through the trees, spectral-blue eyes glinting, until Stiles’ heart is panicked and shuddering. Lately, the wolf has become more sullenly desperate, sneaking closer, more irrational. The empty school seemed like as good a place as any. Stiles is sure that this is a terrible idea.

“Well, personally I’m a fan of ignoring a problem until eventually it just goes away.” Except that’s what Stiles has been doing for the past four weeks, and the problem hasn’t gone anywhere. So, he pulls the bolt-cutters, and a torch from his car and begins walking up the concrete steps of the school.

“How long do we have?” His naïve friend asks, and Stiles shoves the torch at him so both his hands are free to cut the chain.

“It’s already here.” Stiles sighs long-sufferingly. They’d had to wait for everyone to leave: students, teachers, and then the janitors. The moon had risen in the early evening, before the pale sky had even darkened. Its pressing light a soft, transient reminder of the glow of the beast’s eyes. Stiles glances up as he pushes the doors open. The same moon, now high, and backdropped by a deep, twinkling navy. “We just have to keep it at the school ‘til morning.”

“Have you seen it?” Scott scoffs, surprised and a little indignant that he wasn’t informed.

“No, but it’s here.”

Anyone who’s ever heard a lone wolf howl, knows the chilling tones it carries. Something in the hollowness, the singularity of it, pleading and dangerous, echoes off the atmosphere of the dark sky itself. A sound, so lonely and lethal rises from the trees, as if to prove Stiles correct.

The boys still, their veins and muscles like ice, their breath stopped. Stiles is the first to move, watching the ebony between the pines at the edge of the carpark. He wedges his foot against the door, and tugs on his friend’s sleeve, quietly ushering him into the school. Stiles waits, the shadows beyond the tree-line are still. The silence grows, and soon Stiles is no longer able to bare the weight of the unanswered, he relaxes his shoulders, cups his hands around his mouth – and he howls.

Scott yanks him through the doorway by the collar of his shirt, just as the monstrous wolf emerges from the trees, blue eyes glinting.

“What the hell was that?” He gasps, inhaler already in hand, and Stiles winces in both guilt and sympathy. Before he can answer, Scott’s snatching the bolt-cutters and using them to lock the door. “That won’t hold, will it?” He pants.

“Probably not,” Stiles agrees.

They step back slowly, trying to keep their breathing, and their footsteps silent. A shrill, buckling, screech runs slowly down the length of the door; sharp claws, distorting and twisting the metal. Stiles yelps and stumbles back, startled, and clumsy with adrenaline. Scott turns with him and they start forward just as a heavy thud hits the door. The sound is followed by a whine, but the boys are already sprinting up the hall.  

“Somewhere without windows,” Stiles shouts in panic.

“Every single room in this building has windows.” Scott throws open a classroom door, and Stiles glances at the 20-foot wall of glass.

“Or, somewhere with less windows.” Scott stops him from moving on, eyes wide, and a hand pressed to his friend’s chest. Stiles follows his sightline, dreading.

It almost appears to be grinning, hulking silhouette perched on the roof just in view. Maw too full of gleaming, white teeth, and electric blue eyes, blazing. It looks as if to be thinking _‘Got you’_. Then, it’s leaping forward, and they’re running. There’s a crash, and Stiles risks a glance behind. The beast is clamouring to its feet, shards of glass still falling from the jagged window frame.

“The boy’s locker room,” Scott yells.

They only just manage to lose the werewolf, but Stiles is sure it’ll be back on their scent soon. If they can fortify the room somehow, then they stand a chance at forestalling the lunatic wolf, while letting it continue to stalk them until morning.

“God, what is it doing? What does it want?” Stiles groans, pulling as hard as he can on the lockers, as Scott pushes from the other end.

They’re halfway to pushing it against the door, when they hear a frustrated growl that trails off into a whimper. Stiles is sure that Scott’s panicked expression is not unlike his own. He looks around frantically for a place to hide. He starts toward the lockers when suddenly, he’s being pulled back, and flung to the floor.

“You,” Scott says slamming closed the door to the equipment room. “It wants you, Stiles.”

“Scott! Don’t be an idiot, we’ve been through this!” Stiles’ hushed incensing is swallowed by a long screech, as Scott pushes something heavy across the floor. Stiles slams into the door, but it won’t budge.

“Strength in numbers against super-villains, Stiles. This is werewolves, different rules.” Scott sounds too casual for an asthmatic possibly facing a suffocating, lycanthropic body-lock.

“Same rules! Same! They’re not situational!” Stiles argues, his voice slowly rising in frustration. He looks through the door’s small window. “Scott, let me out!” Scott tips the set of lockers, breathing heavy, blocking in the desk that’s against the door. “Damn it, Scott!”

A roar reverberates through the walls, and Stiles fights every instinct he has to fall away from the door, to keep his face to the glass and his eyes on his best-friend. Scott jumps away as the hallway door is all but torn from its hinges. Scott slides over the desk, putting the heap of toppled furniture between him and the werewolf, but it has already spotted Stiles.

“Stiles, get away from the door!” Scott whines.

“What, so you can have it all to yourself?” Stiles jokes dryly, as the tension in the room swells. The wolf huffs, seemingly humoured and disgusted, not once taking its eyes from Stiles’. Then, it looks up.

Stiles looks up. The old ceiling tile is dirty and worn, no doubt from countless years of torture since the school was built. Stiles has a brief moment to sigh, before there’s a loud crash from the other room, Scott is yelping, and the tiles above him are being broken, and pushed in from the weight above them.


	3. Chapter 3

The wolf doesn’t crash to the floor like the remaining ceiling tiles are threatening to. Somehow it manages to drop steady, but gracelessly to the ground, rising to almost full-height before Stiles. It pauses there a moment, swaying back a little, as if undecided – reluctant. As if Stiles were the more dangerous of the two of them.

“Hold on, Stiles!” Scott yells from the other room, but Stiles knows that there’s no way his best friend can move the tipped lockers by himself. “I’m going to try find something to lever the door.”

“Ten-four, Scotty. Take your time.” Stiles is breathing harsh, thin terror torn through with curiosity. The wolf is still tipping forward and back, as if pulled in both directions at once, the balance only disrupted momentarily by whichever is stronger. Stiles wants to know what’s changed. The beast growls, as it tries to move back, but it’s followed by a softer, almost whimper. Then, most peculiarly, its eyes flicker. Still a startling blue, still wild, but – human. Stiles is the first to decide.

Caught between the pulls, the wolf even stumbles back a little, as Stiles yells a battle-cry and lunges forward. He digs his shoulder into the body check, like he was taught to do in lacrosse, but it’s like hitting a wall. He keeps pressing, leaving no space between them, Stiles’ most venerable points of weakness shielded by the werewolf’s own body. The wolf reacts immediately, wrapping its limbs around Stiles’ body, as it had done the last time. It gives a low, menacing grumble, and the fear makes Stiles’ throat close up mid-gasp, but he only presses further – clings tighter. The wolf lifts him off his feet and stills.

“You call that a hug?” Stiles grunts because, honestly, his breath is getting a little shallow, but he’s going to use it up antagonising anyway. His own grip has lessened a little, only because the wolf didn’t immediately try to violently detach him. He tightens his hold again, briefly, but his arms are left weak and shaking from the adrenaline quickly draining from his system. In fact, his whole body feels weak - and warm. The wolf gives a small whimper, and Stiles realises that he isn’t being crushed. His breathlessness is from the sudden slowing and syncing of their breaths. Stiles’ attention is stolen for a moment when he realises it. Their breathing calm and steady, as a new perspective has him focus again. “Oh,” he says, surprised. “You really do.”

“Stiles?” Scott calls anxiously. He can’t see past the wolf’s form to his friend, so Stiles calls out as reassuringly as he can.

“We’re ok, Scott. We’re, uh, yeah…” Tentatively, Stiles relaxes, squirming a little to free one of his hands. The wolf has its head over one of Stiles’ shoulders, and not as intimidatingly close to his throat as last time. Stiles places his hand on the wolf’s shoulder, and gives a couple awkward, gentle pats. The wolf whines, long and low. “Yeah, we’re ‘gonna be ok.”

Stiles lets the werewolf hold him. It’s not, uncomfortable, but Stiles isn’t one for being able to hold still, even when being held still. So, it’s no wonder he starts to fidget after just a couple of minutes. The wolf, who clearly isn’t quite hugged out yet, huffs, and leans back to flash his eyes. Stiles sighs.

“You are terrifying,” He admits, and the wolf only makes it worse by pulling back its lip in an alarming approximation of a grin. Stiles cringes. “Yeah, you’re a regular charmer. You get two more minutes, creeper-wolf, and then you’re putting me down.” The wolf grumbles, and must decide to make the time count, that or ignore him completely, because it squeezes Stiles closer again. Stiles acquiesces, and simply lets his head fall forward onto the werewolf’s shoulder. He can feel the wolf’s muzzle subtly shifting closer to his throat, and he swallows nervously, before tilting his head a little to the side in permission. The wolf wastes no time snuffling into the muscle of his shoulder, before breathing a long sigh. Stiles tries desperately not to chuckle from the ticklish maw at the crook of his neck and fails. He takes to running his hand up and down what he can reach of the wolf’s back. Which, is why he feels every horrible shudder, and spasm, as the muscles there begin to shift unnaturally.

The wolf snarls long, and it bleeds into a very human yell of discomfort. The werewolf loosens it’s hold a little, lowering Stiles to his feet, but Stiles keeps calmly stroking the muscles of its – his, it’s a man – trembling back. The chest against his is heaving harshly, trying desperately to regain the equilibrium they had before. Stiles starts to take his own deeper breaths to help the other match them.

“They left,” The other wheezes, low voice rasping and a little shaky. Tense, like these are the first words he’s spoken in a long time, and they aren’t really the ones he had wanted to say. Stiles shushes the other calmly, more to comfort than to silence the man. “Left me alone in the hands of strangers, in the grasp of – hunters.” The man snarls, and Stiles feels it through the skin of his shoulder. While his words are bare, the feeling and implications contained within them, are not.

“It’s ok.” Stiles encourages the other to continue, giving a gentle squeeze, as a sigh struggles to smooth out the man’s breathing.

“They’d clothe me, bathe me, touch me. I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t want – but for my wolf it was always so little, it needed so much…” The man’s voice is steadily becoming more controlled. Soon, it has lost the panicked, pained edge, and adopted a slow, warm timbre; a resigned, tired, and safe sort of sound. “…then, there was you.” The arms around Stiles loosen, and the man slowly begins to pull away. He pauses, hands against Stiles’ shoulders before he makes to put any distance between them. “Without you, I would have lost myself; but now I’ve gone and done the same to you.” Stiles lets his own hands fall, as he looks into the stunning blue of the man’s eyes. Slow-to-heal scars fail to mar classically handsome features. “Thank you.” It’s not an apology, but it’s sincere. Stiles gives the man a small smile to show that, all in all, there were no hard feelings about the strange ordeal. It seems to make the other all the more relaxed, and content.

“You’re welcome. So, no more hugs…” Stiles tells himself that the disappointed tone in his voice is totally justified. “…without consent?” A traitorously hopeful part of him adds. The man chuckles. While Stiles would never wish upon the werewolf the state of pain and longing that had driven him to Stiles in the first place, he’s certainly hoping that this isn’t the last time the man seeks him out for some consensual cuddling. “Even if I wouldn't ever refuse a hug from someone as hellishly attractive as you, it's a matter of principle.”

“That seems fair. Peter.” He grins, and unlike the wolfish hell-grin, it's actually charming.

“Peter?”

“At the very least, I can tell you my name this time, and more importantly, for a potential next time." Peter winks.

“Oh.” Stiles can feel himself blush. “Well, since I was the one to hug you this time, I’m Stiles.” He takes Peter’s offered hand, but instead of an impersonal handshake – both feeling a little like they were beyond that now – Peter simply offers a gentle grasp, which Stiles returns. As they smile at each other, Stiles can’t help but think  _'Here it comes, he's got_ _me’_.

“And I’m Scott.” Stiles’ best friend coins in, wearily, from somewhere outside the equipment room. “And after all this, someone willing definitely owes  _me_  a hug.”

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up being a little longer than the two chapters that I had planned. C'est la vie. Please let me know if you think any of the themes in this require a warning, stronger rating, or different tags. 
> 
> This was really fun to write, and I hope it was just as fun to read. Thank you for doing so.


End file.
